


I Believe

by maydei



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Internet, John Watson's Blog, John-centric, Post Reichenbach, anonymous, some implied johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/pseuds/maydei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Believe

John hadn't looked at the blog in months. He couldn't bear it—couldn't go back and look at his own words, look at his memories of Sherlock, all spilled out, spelled out, in pixels and hexadecimal colors. He couldn't go back now that Sherlock was...

He couldn't. 

He hadn't written another entry, not in days and weeks and months, not even one to say goodbye. He had simply grieved on his own in a new apartment, his only company the sound of London rain on his windows and the glow of his cell's screen as he scrolled through nearly a hundred stupid, meaningless texts that he'd never gotten around to deleting. They were more precious to him than gold, now; more precious than his new medication to help with his limp.

He walked with a cane these days, wandering the streets when he dared to go out; it had been long enough that few people recognized his face anymore from those age-old pictures in gossip magazines. He liked it better that way—that people didn't know him anymore. He didn't like being just _John Watson_. He'd liked everything so much better when he was _Sherlock Holmes' Dr. Watson._ He liked being part of a matched set. In a strange and aching way, he missed yelling (not shrieking) at Sherlock when he found assorted limbs in the fridge and bullet holes in the wall. He missed giving grumbling lectures as he reached over Sherlock's sprawled body on the couch, aiming for the table just behind _The World's Laziest Detective_ and handing him his cell phone. 

He missed Sherlock so much it ached.

But it had been a year, and it was no longer reasonable to grieve. It was no longer acceptable for him to mope and hide himself away (despite the understanding nods and sympathetic looks given by their old— _his_ old—friends, saying, _"Take as much time as you need, John. You just lost your—"  "Friend,"_ John would interrupt, and ignore those pitying smiles. _"Yes, your friend."_ ). It didn't matter what they said (or what they thought), anything more than a year was just preposterous (no matter how much it still ached to wake up and not hear the muffled croon of a violin's song from the next room over).

A year was the limit, so it was time to face the past, to move on. The blog came first.

He logged on after several missed attempts, trying and failing to remember his passcode and which email address he'd used; eventually, he was in. But he had a system—log in to the blog, log into the email, answer comments worthy of responses based on order of email notifications—

**1,059 Unread Emails** , proclaimed the aggravated webpage in brightly-colored letters. **98% Capacity** , read the subtitle. **We suggest you clear out some old emails!**

**  
**John sighed, put-upon, and started the long process of going through each and every one.

 

* * *

 

 

Unsurprisingly, a majority of the comments were hateful, claiming John to be a _horrible excuse for a human being_ , a _cowardly conspirator_ , and, most memorably, a _dum faggit losr._ All of these were deleted with a private, self-depreciating smile, and an aching sense of longing for the days in which those same readers called he and Sherlock _incredible_ like he himself had called Sherlock, too, long ago.

Delete. Delete. Delete. It was tedious, but John had sworn to himself at the beginning that he would read every comment, and it's not his readers' fault that he got so frightfully behind. Even though most of them were awful, feeding into his battered, tired mood, he would read them. (Sherlock would have deleted them all by now, leaning over John's shoulder and calling the lot _cattle-brained, tar-mouthed imbeciles that would be better-served by reading inaccurate radicalist biographies than looking to public lavatory-stall graffiti for their ignorance._ It was for precisely that reason that John read them all.)

He was reaching the bottom of the list, though, with only several left (Delete. Delete. Delete.) when he finally got to the last, finger hovering over the Delete key.

He stopped; frowned. He blinked slowly, head tilting, and peered at the screen through aching eyes.

The last comment was sent by an anonymous user earlier that same day, and contained only the words: _Did you believe Sherlock?_

John was torn between a grimace and a smile when he hit the button for 'Reply' and said: _Yes._ _  
_

The reply, somehow, was nearly-instantaneous. _Do you still believe in Sherlock?_

John replied, _He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.  
_

He was ready to exit out of the blog with that last comment, when the reply came.

_Then I do, too. I believe in Sherlock Holmes._

John cracked a smile, wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand (itching, just allergies), and typed one last reply. _I wish more people thought like you, Anonymous._

He logged out and shut down his computer, readying himself for bed. He did not see Anonymous reply.

_They will._

* * *

  
The next day, John woke late; back aching, leg cramped and twitching, and could barely drag himself out of bed to make himself a cuppa. He settled heavily on the couch, turning on the small, second-hand telly, only intending to check the weather.

_"And returning to breaking news: the infamous internet-hacker group, Anonymous, known to some as "virtual terrorists", have started a new online phenomenon. This morning, the group posted a message on the popular social networking site, Twitter, reading, "#IBelieveInSherlockHolmes Do you?" In only a few hours, the phrase was 'Trending' with over 50,000 users and growing._

_"Sherlock Holmes was 'the world's only consulting detective'. Though hailed as a genius and a hero, his claim to fame was soundly debunked when it was proven he was a fraud. Sherlock Holmes committed suicide just over one year ago in a public spectacle that left the world reeling. This is the first time Holmes' guilt has been called into question by the public._

_"This rising conflict seems to have been caused by a short conversation with the elusive Dr. John Watson, Holmes' associate and colleague, who answered a comment late last night on his blog, saying, "[Sherlock] was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."_

_"Law enforcement in charge of Holmes' case have declined to comment at this time."  
_

_  
_He stared, shocked. On the screen, there was a picture of an enormous brick wall, covered in graffiti from what looked like hundreds of artists. In the very center in dripping, capitalized letters, were the words: _I believe in Sherlock Holmes._

His heart felt like it was breaking and expanding all at the same time; John's hand covered his mouth as he helplessly watched the newscast come to an end.

He laughed; couldn't help it. Laughing was better than crying. 

After all these months of being alone in his faith, after all these weeks—

It meant more than words could say. He was sure that Sherlock, though he never would have said it, would have been touched, too. 

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes._

And now the world believed in him, too.

 

 

 

 


End file.
